Lacrimoso
by gingerlizard91
Summary: Abbie discovers a piano in the records room, as well as a few things about Ichabod. IchAbbie fluff.


Abbie didn't question what possible purpose an upright piano would serve in a records office. She treated it like what it was in her mind: an old friend. And a distraction.

The piano cover, a dust-encrusted barrier of flaking plastic, crinkled loudly as she lifted it over the keys. Abbie carefully pulled the bench out and grimaced as the old wood scraped along the floor. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room where she knew Ichabod sat, cross-legged, absorbed in a book on the collected paintings of William Blake. Tracking down every tidbit of ancient and modern knowledge on Moloch was a full-time job for him – not that he'd had one for quite a while. The man just didn't know how to take a breather.

Abbie sat on the piano bench and pressed a single ivory key. It plunked resolutely. She pressed a few more, playing a C-major scale to warm up the rusty recesses of her mind. The piano was, amazingly, still in tune, most likely due to several decades in a climate-controlled cellar. Abbie straightened her back, arched her fingers, and set her gaze on the upper panel where sheet music would normally be placed.

Kinesthesis, her teacher had called it, the fancy term for muscle memory. Music never really leaves you if you start young enough, and Abbie certainly hadn't forgotten that lilting, classical piece she'd been attempting to finish in high school. She began to play, haltingly at first, but with increasing confidence as the notes came back to her. The song was slow and sad at times, a bittersweet ode to her turbulent existence. She allowed herself to sink into the past, return to a time before creepy white trees and broken familial bonds, before headless Hessians and cheeky scholars-turned-soldiers –

The unceremonious crash near her right ear resulted in a twang of dissonant chords and a colorful swear under her breath.

"Jesus, Crane," Abbie said aloud. "Anyone ever tell you you've got two left feet?"

He'd knocked over a stack of books and was hurriedly picking them up. "I assure you, lieutenant, both my feet curve in the correct manner inward – "

Modern colloquialisms often escaped her mouth before she remembered to stop herself. "Never mind," she sighed.

"You play, then?" Ichabod asked, talking a few hesitant steps toward her. The stack of books wobbled beside him, threatening to topple once more.

"Used to. Back before everything started crumbling at the foundations. My mom, she wanted . . . She wanted peace, I guess. She wanted to believe the Mills family wasn't beyond repair after Dad left." Abbie fidgeted uncomfortably. "I didn't want to take lessons at first, but I kind of warmed to the idea and it became my safe place. I only felt like I had control of things when I could sit down after school and work through a few songs."

Trying (and failing) to hide his excitement, Ichabod started clearing the papers off a nearby armchair. "I, uh, I did not possess the great fortune of hearing a piano often after my relocation to America," he said.

"I don't know a whole lot about 18th-century society, but didn't your family background at least give you _some_ standing?"

Ichabod picked up the last yellowed document, flung it across the room, and eased himself into the chair. "Unfortunately, no. While at Oxford, I learned to play from a colleague of mine who operated in similar circles as I did. But as a British defector to the Continental Army? I was shunned by the very nobility that had known my family for generations. I grew to miss the piano's dulcet tones. The last instance I remember attending a concert was in Philadelphia before the war began. I . . . I'd just been wed."

A hideous pang of jealousy rushed through Abbie before she could stifle it. She clenched her fists, immediately disgusted with herself. He was her partner, her Witness, her _friend_, and she had the nerve to entertain some schoolgirl crush on him while his loving wife was trapped in purgatory? _Get it together_, Abbie chided herself. She hid her guilt by swiveling to face the keys again, picking up where the song left off.

"It is Bach's Goldberg Variations, if I'm not mistaken?" Ichabod ventured. "The aria?"

Abbie nodded wordlessly but didn't stop. Despite her misgivings about their relationship, for the first time in a long time, she actually had an attentive audience. Ichabod bobbed his head in time with the beat, conducting gracefully with one hand. A couple times, she caught him closing his eyes and smiling serenely. Abbie found his reactions both refreshingly visceral and admittedly endearing.

When she ended abruptly, Ichabod narrowed his eyes in confusion. "No."

Abbie raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"That's not how it ends. I'm certain there is more."

She shrugged. "I never learned the ending. It kind of got eclipsed by the whole 'you-and-your-sister-might-need-to-be-committed' episode – hey!"

Brimming with impatience, Ichabod had perched himself on the edge of the bench, gesturing for Abbie to shift over. She rose, but his hand jumped to her forearm, willing her to sit. "No, stay. We can share."

Abbie relaxed, bewildered by the shockwave his touch sent through her. "You gonna teach me the rest?"

"Teach? Oh, no. I lack the aptitude to properly teach music. It is an art form where I am but a humble history professor. But I shall continue the piece to the best of my knowledge."

"And how the hell would you remember the ending to a song you haven't heard in two-and-a-half centuries?"

Ichabod cracked his knuckles with a dramatic flourish. "You forget that I was asleep for those abysmal years. The tune itself is remarkably fresh within my mind, and – if I might brag for moment – I have an uncanny ability to recall music. Observe."

With that, his elegant fingers danced a new melody that felt familiar, a continuous string of notes that was, without doubt, an extension of the aria. Ichabod played with urgency, but his hands remained steady. Abbie propped her elbow up against the piano, pursed her lips, and pretended to scrutinize his technique when she was really just pleased to find something in common with the man.

The final note echoed ghost-like around the room and faded until silence enveloped them. "There are unexplored depths to you, Crane," Abbie said.

Ichabod seemed taken aback. "I should say the same for you, lieutenant."

Abbie tilted her head to the side, studying the pattern of dichromatic keys all the way up the keyboard. "I wouldn't mind learning the rest. I don't really care if you think you'd be an incompetent teacher." She smiled to herself, a private thought she almost allowed him to hear. "My old teacher always underestimated my dedication."

"In due time, Miss Mills," Ichabod replied. "We have seven years to fill, after all."


End file.
